


Fragments of the Past

by Kitsune_Heart



Series: The Living Universe [11]
Category: Artemis Fowl - Eoin Colfer
Genre: Blanket Permission, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Podfic Welcome, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-30
Updated: 2012-04-30
Packaged: 2017-11-04 13:58:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/394645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitsune_Heart/pseuds/Kitsune_Heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of shorts about the Fowl Universe before the books began, looking into the lives of Coral Short, Artemis Fowl I, Angeline, young Butler, pre-Commander Root, and many others, over time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 15 April 1912, 02:05

LEPMarine wasn't allowed to surface much, these days. Not like when she had first signed on as a medic, patrolling the same seas as William Kidd, Bartholomew Roberts, Edward Teach, and John Rackham. That had been an exciting era, even if she never met the scoundrels. For the most part, LEPMarine monitored the People's fishing practices and escorted pods of whales around human death ships. They couldn't save every one of the large mammals, of course, but many a calf was kept alive to further the species.

The People had long since mastered submarine travel, which they used to disappear when the more observant of Mud Man vessels noticed their presence. On those nights, warlocks specializing in illusions would throw up the image of black ships with tattered sails surrounded by a sea of mist. Then, when their own lookouts reported that the spyglass was being transferred from one human crew member to another, the fairy vessel would sink soundlessly beneath the waves. Sprites, elves, gnomes, and pixies would then converge around the speakers, which picked up the goings-on from the other crew, giggling madly as the opposing captain reprimanded his sailors for drunkenness and lack of spirit as they railed on about ghost ships and curses.

Now, though, things had changed. The Mud Men, so long relegated to the earth and the waves, were beginning to delve underneath the latter, and there were fears they would soon attempt to conquer the former. They had their own (laughably primitive) submarine vessels, and development of sound-based navigation was likely to follow. There were rumors among the service of a young centaur who was already hard at work finding ways to outmaneuver the curious humans, but there were also whispers that the Council would soon give orders for the LEPMarine to slip forever into the depths, only guiding their aquatic charges from afar.

The doctor had been thrilled when the _SPS Oberon_ had been told to surface, but the orders from LEPMarine Commander Arame had the crew on edge: "Surface at 41° 45' North, longitude 50° 15' West. Turn off all lights. Observe Mud Man vessel to northeast. Do not make contact, under any circumstances."

Fresh air! After weeks breathing oxygen recycled by the ships systems, she was going to breath in the tangy, salt-filled air of the Pacific ocean. Despite all of her irritation over the service's exile from the surface, she suddenly felt enormous gratitude for the Mud Men, and silently thanked them for whatever they had done to give her boat time above the waves.

As the hatch was opened and she stepped onto the hull, teeth instantaneously beginning to chatter in the frigid air, the elf regretted her gratitude. They were quite far off from the human ship, but the cold air and calm waters helped the Mud Men's cries drift across the waves. Many of her fellow officers were taking personal spyglasses out from beneath their uniforms to get a closer look at the humans, but she didn't bother. It would waste precious time. The doctor moved quickly, pushing aside the gaping fairies until she found her commanding officer.

"Captain Caltrop!" She cried, not even bothering to stop and salute. A few hundred years ago, that would have earned her a week's worth of cut rations and double shifts at the watch, but she was a bit too entrenched in the LEPMarine to get such a punishment. Besides, everyone was in disarray, so she herself could not be singled out for a lack of military discipline. "Requesting permission to form a rescue party and take the _Huon_ to assist." She stood ram-rod straight, but her entire body quivered, cursing the man for not having given the order already.

"Denied, Lieutenant," he murmured, not even bothering to remove the binoculars from his eyes. A small green light glowed on the lenses, showing that his night vision was on. Most of the spyglasses would not have this feature, as was apparent by the mutterings of the other sailors, who were not getting much more information from their magnified views than they had from the naked eye.

"Sir!" She whipped her head about, long red hair flying in the frigid ocean breeze, again taking in the sight of the far-off ship. The lamps were flickering, obviously close to failure, but there was enough light between them and the bare sliver of moon to see the stern was slowly rising into the air. She turned back to her superior officer. "Sir, I respectfully ask you to reconsider your decision. That ship is _sinking_. The nearest Mud Man vessel is over ninety kilometers away. There is no way they can get here in time. We _must_ assist them."

Groaning, the captain finally lowered his binoculars, but he did not speak. Instead, he began to rub at his eyelids with thumb and forefinger, shaking his head. He muttered something about women being bad luck on ships before straightening. Now in full captain-mode, he addressed his medical officer in a clipped voice. "Short, we have our orders from the Commander. We are here to observe this ship, and under _no_ circumstances are we to approach."

" _Sir!_ " The woman cried, chest puffed out and chin held high, trying to meet him in formality, but failing utterly. She was already formulating her crew, thinking of every officer she knew that was near-full on magic and at least neutral to the humans. "They will _die_ if we don't help them."

"Then let the bastards _die!_ " he roared, causing Short to take a step back. "Did you _see_ the reports, Lieutenant? Over 22 knots! In waters _filled_ with icebergs! That isn't chance or bad luck or the will of the gods! It's plain stupidity! We are _not_ responsible for saving the Mud Men, and we are _certainly_ not responsible for saving them from their own negligence and hubris."

Coral felt like she could pick out individual cries from the water. It tore at her stomach, making it roil in a manner she had not experienced since she first stepped onto a boat so many centuries ago. Even worse, those cries were growing softer, one by one, to be replaced by new voices as other passengers on the doomed ship entered the deadly waters. "That may be true of the crew, sir, but that is a _passenger_ ship. There are women and children out there!"

The captain looked into her hazel eyes and made sure they remained locked as he spoke. "That is none of our concern."

" _Sir!_ If one of our cruise liners was to fall into the same situation, would you not wish for the humans to save _us_?" It was a last-ditch effort, and she knew it. His reply only confirmed how flimsy her argument was.

" _Our_ ships know better than to throttle their way through dangerous seas and, even if some captain was daft enough to risk the safety of his vessel, _we_ have enough lifeboats to evacuate everyone on board. The Mud Men will learn a lesson from this incident, I assure you. It will not happen again."

"But it is happening, _now_. Just let me assemble—"

" _Lieutenant Short!_ " he boomed, catching her with the words half-formed on her lips. Now most of the crew was watching them, torn between the orders of their captain and the desires of the head medical officer. "If you do not leave off on these wild ideas, I will have you thrown in your cabin for the duration of the night's observations and put before Internal Affairs on charges of insubordination and conspiracy to mutiny against your commanding officer!"

She came back at him with fire, taking the few strides needed to meet him face-to-face, teeth snapping. "Respectfully, Captain, _fuck you!_ I am taking the _Huon_ and picking up every Mud—"

She did not have time to finish. The larger elf grabbed the doctor's nape, putting a foot out to her side and wrenching to the left. She tripped over his leg and crashed to the ground, not even given enough time to put up her hands to shield her head. It cracked against the metal hull. Dimly, her physician's brain informed her that the crack she heard was likely a fracture of her frontal bone, possibly her parietal bone. The light that flashed in her vision was the result of the sudden jarring of her eye against the orbital bone, though the quick return to normal sight was promising. She tasted salt, and at first she knew it was just what was left over on the hull from their surfacing, but then there was iron in the puddle and she knew she was bleeding. That would take quite a bit of magic to heal, and she would probably have a nice scar over her right eyebrow. A concussion, too, no doubt about it. Hopefully her apprentice would remember to keep her awake until they were sure her magic had fully kicked in.

"Ensign Black! Throw Lieutenant Short in her cabin and stand watch at her door. If she tries to come back out, restrain her by any means necessary."

Coral scowled. She _hated_ Ensign Black! He shoved carrots onto his incisors and pretended to be a walrus at dinner, for Frond's sake! She tried to yell at him to leave her alone, slowly regaining her motor control and wits as blue sparks shot around her head. The wound stung from the salt water, but Short reassured herself that it was a good thing. Not that fairies ever had to worry about bacterial infections, but the salt water would do no harm to her systems. She took advantage of his arms so she could stand, blinking back the water and diluted blood from her eyelids as she turned to the captain.

Before she could get another word out, a meaty hand covered her mouth and another grabbed both of her wrists, holding them behind the woman's back. She screamed against the palm and tried to kick backwards at her captor, but it was to no avail. Black should have been in Retrieval, but had been forced into LEPMarine by his seaman father. He retained the martial arts skills learned at the Academy, and now used them to escape Short's feeble attacks, dragging her back down the hatch and into the crew's quarters. Without a word on his side—and no discernible words from her covered mouth—he elbowed the doctor's cabin open and thrust the doctor inside, pulling it closed behind her.

Short managed to fall with her torso on the thin bed, but her legs could not support her weight without the help of the other officer. Curling her fingers around the green sheets—made with perfect forty-five degree hospital corners—she heaved, but nothing came up. After the first bout of seasickness when her service began, she had never vomited, but she wanted to now. Perhaps that would expel some of the horror and shame she felt.

Eventually, her healing sparks stopped, but a mental prodding at her powers showed that she was nowhere near empty. She had so much magic to spare. Fairies rarely got injured in LEPMarine, so surely she could have...

Coral dragged herself onto the cot, sitting with her back to the wall, legs pulled up to her chest. She wrapped her arms around her knees and tucked her head between them, gagging every few seconds. _Just do it...just throw up. Remember what you tell the pollywogs. Just a little, and you'll feel a lot better._ She even tried to encourage the bile by rocking along with each flip of her stomach, but to no avail. She couldn't make anything come up. And—though they could not possibly make it through the thick hull of the _Oberon—_ Short was certain that she could hear the voice of every woman and child that had trusted to that enormous ship to take them to a new world rise in despair...and finally fail.

* * *

"The sounds of people drowning are something that I can not describe to you, and neither can anyone else. Its the most dreadful sound and there is a terrible silence that follows it." -Eva Hart, Titanic Survivor


	2. Quantum Entanglement

When Holly woke up, she felt...good. Really good. Better than she had felt in seven years.

She sat up in her bed, frowning. Her outward look in no way reflected her inner disposition, which remained remarkably sunny. Especially remarkable when Holly reflected that this was by far the best she had felt...

She fell back in he bed, pulling the blankets around her head in an effort to hide away from the pain. It would come at her, now, a red-hot knife to her stomach, making her want to scream and throw up at the same time A punch to the chest that would take her breath away and stop her heart. Then she would have to crawl to the recycling lounge and puke her guts out and call in sick to work and she would _never_ get off traffic detail at this rate!

But that wasn't what happened. While she made her body tense in anticipation, the accustomed pain did not come, and her emotions were not torn apart, keeping steady at...happiness.

So, nervously, Holly let the thought come to her. _I haven't felt this good since...since...since Mom died._

And...nothing. Well, not precisely. An echo, deep in her chest, of the sorrow that had filled every moment of her life since she had been orphaned by those damned polluting Mud Men. Yet only an echo.

She sat up again, scowling even more fiercely. Had someone slipped her a happy pill yesterday? That didn't make sense; those began to work within minutes, and she had just woken up, nowhere near her last mealtime. She didn't recall any 'interesting' dreams that would have led to a sudden release of certain tensions within her, so that source of joy-inducing endorphins was unlikely. She had nothing special planned for the day, and a recent altercation with an elf she had given a ticket to (that car just _had_ to belong to Councilman Lope, didn't it?) made it very unlikely that the LEP itself had any sort of special plans for her that she hadn't heard about, but was somehow sensing. There was no real reason that she felt so...happy.

Huffing, delighted that she could at least add in irritation to her mood, Holly swung her legs out of bed and stood, stretching her interlaced fingers over her head, tips brushing the ceiling. This part of her apartment was technically meant to be a large closet, thus the lowered ceiling, and Holly had to sleep with the door open to keep her claustrophobia from being triggered. It was this room or sleeping on her living room couch, and that slovenly move didn't suit her. She had found the cheapest apartment within walking distance of Police Plaza after her mother passed on. She couldn't afford the mortgage on the house she had grown up in, barely coming out ahead on the inheritance. Now she was holed up in a "studio apartment," six of which could have easily fit into the two-bedroom house of her parents', and barely making rent. A lieutenant in traffic should have still been living at home, but that wasn't exactly an option, so here she was, toughing it out and stressed every day.

Every day but today. Holly brought her hands back down, scratching at her stomach as she walked out of the bedroom and into her kitchen. She glanced at the clock on the stove and paused. She knew she'd woken up before her alarm demanded she arise, but the digital readout said she a whole two hours early. This made no sense to her. She could barely roll out of bed, normally. She considered going back to the comfort of her quilts, but found this idea lacked appeal. She was fully awake and ready to go.

At a loss for what to do with this free time, Holly decided to attend to the most immediate need: food. She reached for a box of cereal on top of her refrigerator, but paused before she even took a bowl from the cabinets. She _was_ two hours ahead of schedule. She didn't need to eat the taste-equivalent of cardboard. Putting the box back down, Holly began to rummage in the cabinets, pulling out containers and bottles with little regard for the cleaning she would doubtless have to do once her wild cooking idea was done and over with. She found some instant pancake mix, a bag full of dried strawberries, and the ultimate in luxury: a small container of real maple syrup. Her mouth began to water at that sight, and Holly knew she could resist no longer.

She took the largest bowl in her cabinets out, swiftly emptying the entire instant mix box, a cloud of white powder rising from the bowl. It drifted up her nose, tickling, and Holly turned her head into her arm to sneeze. Then she began to giggle.

After a few seconds of that, she stopped, eyes darting about her apartment. She was filled with the brief, irrational belief that someone really _had_ slipped her a pill while she slept, and said person was now watching her for his own sick amusement. She thought of the Operations Booth's resident, Foaly the centaur, and the irrational belief suddenly seemed a lot more plausible. But soon she shook her head, wiping a smudge of flour off her cheek. Foaly didn't notice anyone, being far too busy taunting Julius Root and the other commanders, as well as wooing the Council for an upping of his budget.

Holly worked quickly, adding in the wet ingredients, as well as the strawberries, pulling out each of her skillets to cook up the massive batch of food at top speed. Twenty minutes later, she was moving the last flapjack to her plate for that morning's breakfast—leaving the rest of the batch in her refrigerator for future meals—and turning off the burners. She looked for a time at the skillets, trying to decide what to do with them. Then, with a shrugs, she announced to no one in particular that she would just "fuck it," and sat down to eat.

She ate far too much, and did not care. She burned through calories like no one's business, so a little breakfast-time indulgence was okay now and then. From food, Holly went on to the longest shower she had taken since her last three-day weekend off, and she couldn't even remember when that had been. She spent some time walking about her apartment in nothing but a towel and headphones, singing along to Cosmic Nomads as she did nothing in particular. Then, still ten minutes early, Holly dressed, wrapped up a few more pancakes for a cheap lunch, and wandered towards Police Plaza.

Normally, the elf she met on the way to her clock-in station would have irritated her beyond belief. Trouble Kelp had been intolerably smug since his admittance to Retrieval, and the bevy of women that flocked to him as a result was not helping Holly's general opinion of the new captain. Before she could get worked up by his swagger, the elf turned from his current pursuit—an absolutely minuscule pixie with hair dyed neon green who was trying desperately to log on at another terminal before she was too flustered by the male's attentions to function properly—and caught sight of her. "Short? _Someone_ is on happy pills, it looks like!"

Normally, Holly would have snapped at Trouble, probably saying something in regards to his sexual proclivities or supposed secret hygiene quirks (she'd once made a possible partner flee with the suggestion that the new captain had to have his back routinely waxed, and occasionally asked for it to be done in geometric patterns...and then been put on a week's unpaid leave for slander), but instead she laughed, typing in her employee number and password. "No, Trouble. No psychedelics for me." Next to the terminal, Foaly's circuit-filled version of a dumbwaiter whirred, bringing up her Traffic equipment for the day. Holly longed for the personal touch of being outfitted by a techie before rocketing to the surface after a runner.

"They're not psychedelics, Holly," he protested, giving his pixie prey a wink before briefly abandoning her to focus on the fiery officer. "And, if you're not on some mood-altering drug, what has made you so...glowy this morning? Got laid?"

"No," Holly snapped, narrowing her eyes at Trouble. "And I'm not interested, before you ask."

Trouble huffed, crossing his arms and pouting, only stopping when Holly reached out and poked his forehead, making him lean back and chuckle before batting her hand away.

"It's nothing in particular, just..." She slid open the door panel, taking out a LED-filled Traffic suit and helmet, looking at the panels that would soon display her commands to frustrated drivers. She turned to Trouble, holding the equipment to her chest, and smiled, though it was small. "I just feel really good today. Like...someone told me they got me a gift, but they haven't told me what it is, yet." Reaching up, Holly played with the fuzzy back of her messily-cut hair, laughing and trying to keep in a blush. She felt intolerably silly, but it was the correct description for her mood.

Trouble studied her, obviously trying to decide if she was lying about those happy pills. Eventually, he shrugged, taking the helmet out of Holly's hands and plopping it over her head. "Well, don't look at me. Root said Recon won't be hiring for another few months, so don't think this is some sort of promotion premonition."

Holly shook her head, letting the helmet settle more firmly around her, its pneumatic cushions coming in to cradle her skull. Readouts began to pop up, showing a smattering of her vital statistics in one corner and a dizzying array of traffic updates in all of the others. "That's not it...but I think it's important. Really important."

Trouble rolled his eyes at the over-dramatic woman. "Whatever you say, Holly. Now, get your hide out there and go tell people off for double-parking. For Haven!" he boomed, guffawing as he walked away, looking for his romantic interest for that evening.

Holly sighed. Whoever had decided Traffic would be a requirement for every new officer was a sadist. Flexing her fingers, she logged into her employee account, pulling up her schedule.

1 _September 1990: Traffic control, weather park, lot 6b. Other duties as assigned._

"Oh, tourists," Holly muttered, heading off for work. "I just _love_ my job."


	3. Orientations

Every hero has their origin. Every story has it's prologue. Every legend has its roots. For a certain pair of elves, it was no different. Known in their height of power for being the two closest officers in the LEP, they too had to have an initial meeting. A coming together, before the binding of their spirits in friendship. A single moment where, for the first time, they could recognize one another and get the barest inkling for what would one day come to be.

As should be expected, alcohol was at fault.

Well, not at _fault_. But certainly responsible, in at least a partial degree.

Even though Trouble Kelp was only in his first year as a cadet in the LEP, the force was already buzzing about him. The son of the late Major Manfred Kelp—whom everyone had once expected to rise up and become the next Commander of LEPRecon—he was already broad-shouldered, square-jawed, and bright-eyed about his future in Retrieval (somewhat scandalizing his Recon-centric mother). His college degree in Communications was nothing to rave about (he had barely squeaked by, truth be told), but his entrance exams to the academy had left his instructors stunned. For the first time in LEP history, the force considered pushing a cadet forward a year. They only held back because of Trouble's one major flaw:

He hit on anything that moved and had genitalia different from his own. ANYTHING.

At first, it seemed to be just high spirits. A new cadet, living in the academy, away from his mother and ready to carouse with the boys and romp with the girls. The higher-ups began to reconsider this assessment after he asked Wing Commander Vinyáya if it was technically possible to join the Mile-High Club in a subterranean environment. And if she would do him the honor of a nomination.

So, kept on a level with his year-mates, Trouble Kelp trudged through the introductory classes, horrified that the material being covered was the very same from his father's old LEP textbooks. One hundred years, and the only change came from the LEP's new technical advisor, Foaly, whose short class seemed to consist of this one rule: if you break it, I will break you.

After two weeks had passed, one evening Trouble entered the male dorms and caught sight of a poster that proclaimed (in glittery letters that flaked all over the floor and onto any fairy foolish enough to touch them) "Welcome Party! Saturday, 7am. 456 South Sparks Street," he nearly squealed. Finally, something to do in this godsforsaken year besides listen to old sprites talk about the dangers posed by those "newfangled Mud Man steam locomotives!"

It wasn't hard to gather together a group of other cadets to make sure Trouble did not show at the party alone. Everyone was eager to blow off a little steam, and possibly consume enough alcohol to force their bodies into healing. Soon, all were off, piling into a few cars or taking over public transportation in riotous bunches.

Trouble was quite happy, upon arrival at the party house, to find that an acceptable number of chicks had been invited. The ratio was something along the lines of three men to every woman, which meant that a large deal of the party would be going home with just their hands for company, but Trouble had never had issues gaining a partner, unless the ratio was more along the lines of ten-to-one (including that one time he'd mistakenly walked into a lesbian bar...but the months of fantasy material was _well_ worth the night's disappointment).

He was also quite happy to see Chix.

"Verbil! Still green?" Trouble held out his hand, slightly cupped, and Chix took it, slapping it with his own hand so they popped loudly, then grabbing tight, pulling Trouble in so their chests crashed together.

"For the most part, for the most part!" Chix agreed, clapping Trouble on the back. Chix was a few years ahead of Trouble in the academy, but still attended a lot of the introductory courses. He wasn't the brightest fairy, and the only coursework that he had advanced in to the highest levels was "crisis containment." Which, for the most part, involved blowing up a lot of shit to make sure the Mud Men couldn't get any firm evidence of fairy existence. He had a marked fondness for high explosives, and constantly wore a pair of flight goggles, which was likely the cause of the dark rings about his eyes, from where the gunpowder and other "human-level" combustibles had created what seemed to be ever-lasting stains. "Gotta say, times look tough. I'm afraid I might be turning a little _blue_ by the end of the night, knowwhatI'msayin'?" He elbowed Trouble, eyebrows waggling.

Trouble laughed, shaking his head. "You just lack _technique,_ Chix. There's not a woman in this party that could turn you down if you had the right moves." As if to point out who had all the moves, Trouble ran a hand over his crew-cut hair, adding the lightest degree of muss to the strict style.

"Technique? _Technique?_ Nah, nah, Trouble, you don't get it. These are _LEP_ girls. Half of them are here because they've got a vendetta against men, and the other half have a vendetta against _everyone_." Chix shook his head, his own short hair (made all the shorter by a few out-of-control fires in the last week) looking extra-black against his green skin. "You get laid tonight, I will bow down to you in awe."

"No need, man; pussy is it's own reward," Trouble replied, eyes roving across the room. The party was being held in the house of a new LEPRecon major (some sprite, name along the lines of "Pain" or "Bane"), and fairies were packed in. Nearly everyone was holding an alcoholic beverage, and those that weren't were trying desperately to convince some prize female to imbibe. "I could bag any woman in this house."

"Any woman?" Verbil asked, smile sly, already focused on the living room. "Any?"

" _Any_ ," Trouble confirmed, smirking.

"Okay," Chix said. He jerked his head towards a couch, it's two seats only occupied by a lone fairy. "That one."

Trouble followed Chix's gaze...and felt his heart stop.

"Ho...ly...Frond," Trouble breathed.

"Oh, you've _no_ idea," Chix chuckled. He pushed Trouble's shoulder, spurring him on towards the woman. "Go on. She's _alone_. You'll never get a better chance."

Trouble nodded, but he was no longer paying attention to his sprite friend. Chix had unerringly pointed out...a _goddess_. Long strawberry-blond hair fell in a light wave all the way down to her hips, though a good deal of it was now held in a complicated up-do, kept in place by a series of silver and diamond (Trouble never once thought the gems were artificial, those were damned _rocks_ , of that he was sure) clips in the shape of stars. Her form was all curves, with the most important two barely contained by a black, long-sleeved mesh shirt, the light material quite see-through, her modesty only maintained by a more solid red spaghetti-strap shirt below. Her jean-skirt looked like someone had managed to invent a process to shrink-wrap denim onto a body, and another series of stars (these in black) were painted on the side of the leg closest to Trouble, starting large on her upper thigh and fading to stardust at the ankles. Those nigh-endless legs were punctuated by a pair of delicate feet, wearing translucent stiletto heels, tipped by a black pedicure to match her black manicure.

Trouble had been with women. Lots of women. Lots and _lots_ of women. But he had _never_ approached a creature that was so...ethereal.

That didn't stop him from flopping down next to her, laying one arm across the back of the couch, groaning as if the act of walking was the most tasking thing in the world. He remained looking forward, deciding to take this a little slow. "Nice party," he semi-shouted, making sure he was heard above the din.

The blond turned her head _very_ slowly, letting her eyes travel up and down Trouble's entire body before raising an eyebrow. She looked forward again, shrugging.

"You alone?"

The elf let her head fall back, her hair shifting to slide over her shoulders, the movement arresting Trouble's eyes, making his heart race. She sighed greatly, not speaking.

"Oh, sorry, my bad," Trouble said, getting the hint. He got up to move, but stopped before he had actually even raised his rear from the seat, falling back heavily. "Look, I'm sure you're going to get hit on by a lot of guys tonight..."

This time, the woman looked at him a bit more closely. She decided it was kinder to pay a little attention and give a full refusal. With any luck, it would stick better than an off-hand dismissal.

"And I know a lot of them are going to be _really_ creepy, and I don't want to be that guy, okay?" Trouble grinned. It was his favorite move. He'd not _quite_ perfected it, yet, but that grin was getting him quite the name. He simply thought one thing while he let it loose on an unsuspecting female, and that thought shone through like a beacon: _there are dozens of gorgeous women in this room tonight, and I could have my pick of any of them, but I've decided I want_ you, _and you are going to_ really _enjoy what I plan to do to you once we're alone_ **.** It had not failed him for over a year. "Just...do I make you nervous?"

The woman pursed her lips, considering this. Reluctantly, she shook her head, and her lips began to twitch. "No."

" _She speaks_ ," Trouble gasped, and he wasn't entirely acting. She had a accent-less voice that he would normally associate with an aristocrat or a news broadcaster. Undoubtedly educated in a rather expensive school, and possibly privately tutored. This was class. He liked classy women. They made the most amazing noises when they finally lost control. "Okay," he continued, settling in so he reclined easily on the couch. "Are you nervous now?"

"No," she said again, also leaning back, genuinely smiling. It was a new approach.

"Excellent." Trouble raised his arm, letting it rest on the back of the couch. "Are you nervous now?"

"Not in the least." The smaller elf let her toes wriggle, finding that she was enjoying the interchange. This one had potential.

"Okay..." Slowly, Trouble took his arm back, settling it between them. "Are you nervous now?"

A frown just beginning, the female looked at Trouble's hand. Still, it was among the most tentative moves men made on her, so she shrugged. "Not really."

"Great." Before she could deduce what must happen next, Trouble picked up his hand and rested it on the woman's knee. "And...are you nervous now?"

The blond swallowed, eyes narrowing on the hand. She wanted to shake her leg to break free and go somewhere else in the party, but now she recognized what was going on. It was a game of Sexual Chicken. This male was testing her limits, all with the excuse that, if he crossed the line, he wasn't quite sure where the line was. She opened her mouth to snap that _yes_ , she was fucking _nervous_ , now get your damn hands off me, asshole! But she stopped herself. The frown vanished. She looked at the male and smiled softly. "Why, no. I'm not."

Trouble felt his breath stop. Did she really...was she saying... _awesome_. Humming, he slid his hand up her leg, almost moaning at the feel of the perfectly silky coffee-and-cream skin. He could feel muscles under that skin—another recruit, he guessed, or else a woman obsessed with the gym—and he had never been happier to get such a little touch as this. "Are you..." he swallowed, "nervous now?"

Leaning into her pursuer, the woman purred. "Nooooo... _never_."

Trouble's eyes flickered down. His hand was now halfway up the woman's leg, and it was almost more risqué than he was willing to go. If not for Chix's dare, he might had stopped there and asked for the woman's number, quite pleased with himself for the night. But his goal was to bed her, and he was going to do all in his power to accomplish that. So, trying to hide the tremor in his hand, Trouble caressed further, letting his nails drag briefly on her skin, raising goosebumps. He stopped at the hem of the skirt, the first joint of his pinky sliding underneath. "Are you nervous now?"

Uncrossing her legs—the movement making the male's breath stop completely for several seconds—the goddess shook her head. She was biting her lip, nose scrunching, as if she withheld laughter, and her eyes sparked. "That's not what I'm feeling..." As if to punctuate her point, her legs parted. Just a fraction, really. Just...enough.

Trouble whimpered. He had never received such an obvious invitation. But he was _in public_. There were at least fifty fairies in this room _alone_. The night had just begun, and he had no idea where the nearest bedroom, bathroom, broom closet, or unlocked car was, but he had all the impetus to find out _now_. "Would you...um..."

"Tell me something," the female asked airily, catching his eyes. "Are _you_ nervous?"

Trouble shook his head rapidly. He felt foolish, certainly, but nerves (except the kind that felt things like wetness and warmth) were the furthest thing from his mind. "No, I—"

With a speed that shocked Trouble, the woman's hand shot out, crossing to a nearly identical position as Trouble's own hand. Only higher. And gripping.

Trouble nearly choked on his own tongue. He looked down on his crotch, which was being held—quite firmly—by the goddess.

She paused, eyebrows shooting up as she reflected on what she was holding. "Huh...wow." Looking into Trouble's eyes, she smiled. "I've got to say, congratulations."

Trouble moaned, finding that their lips were just inches apart. But he couldn't move. His head was foggy, and the only part of him that didn't feel disembodied was rapidly developing a mind of its own.

"So," the female said, tilting her head to the side, "are you nervous now?"

Trouble's eyes flitted out across the living room. Fifty other fairies. More in the rest of the house. A divine masterpiece assessing his attributes and complimenting them. A long, long pause.

"Yes," he squeaked, nodding a bare fraction.

"Ah," the woman sighed, giving one last squeeze before taking her hand away, using it to remove the cadet's own questing fingers, putting them both into a position with their hands crossed demurely on their laps. She leaned back comfortably in the couch, humming along to the music, tapping her toes in time.

Trouble thought it best that he not stand up just yet. He was still thinking this a minute later when the blonde turned to him, the movement making him yelp and lean away.

She frowned, looking her pursuer over once more. "So..." she ventured, head tilting to the side. "Are we friends, now?"

Trouble stared at her, mouth open.

Then he began to laugh.

"You... _little_... _YES_!" Wrapping his arm about the female's shoulder, completely ignoring her momentary stiffness, he continued to shake with mirth. "Hell yes! Gods, what is your name?"

For the first time, the woman blushed. She ducked her head, running a hand through her hair in a manner whose innocence was in direct contrast to her earlier groping. "Oh...Frond."

Trouble waited. After a long time, he squeezed her shoulder. "Well? Come on. You've _got_ to tell me your name. You're a cadet, too, right?"

"Yes, this is my second year. I'm Frond."

Trouble stiffened instantly.

Lili looked away quickly, swallowing. "Lili...Frond." She focused on the floor far away and to her left, heart pounding.

"Oh...my...gods," Trouble breathed, taking his arm off Lili's shoulders. "You...you're... _a_ Frond. Of _the_ Fronds?"

"Yes," Lili muttered, leaning away. She was ready for all the normal responses. Leering and mentions of... _him_. Or a redoubled, unrelenting advance. Or a nervous look around, trying to find the royal guards, followed by a swift scramble away.

Trouble sprung to his feet.

Scrambling it was, it seemed.

Throwing his arms in the air, Trouble bellowed for all the party to hear: "I just got groped by a _Frond!_ "

Lili gaped. Before anyone else in the party could ask her companion to repeat what he said, and provide full details, she grabbed one of Trouble's belt loops, yanking him down to the couch. "You _ass!_ What are you doing!"

"Celebrating, man!" Trouble laughed. "Gods, I need a beer. A _Frond_." He extended his hand. "Trouble Kelp. First year. _Very_ nice to meet you."

Lili stared at the hand. When it shook in the air in front of her, miming it's proper task, she took it, biting her lip when the shake was transferred to a kiss on the back of her hand, along with another of those grins, though now she found she didn't mind it so much. Her look of confusion began to morph, the corners of her lips turning up until a full line of bright white teeth shone out. "A pleasure."

"Well, we _could_ still—"

" _NO!_ " Lili snarled, friendly demeanor gone in an instant.

"Kidding, kidding," Trouble soothed, leaning back, putting his hands up. He rested with one elbow on the couch's arm rest, studying his companion. "You are...something else, you know? Come on." Trouble slapped his thigh, then again held out an open hand to the woman. "I hear jazz. Do you dance?"

Lili shrugged. "A little."

Trouble stood, grabbing his new friend's hand, pulling her with him. "Give me this one chance. If my dancing doesn't work, then we'll leave it at friends, okay?"

Rolling her eyes, Lili nodded. "Fine. Don't expect anything, though, Kelp."

"It's 'Trouble,' like I said. I am _big_ Trouble."

Lili laughed, allowing herself to be led to the dance floor that was set up in the back yard. "Why, that you are."

And, as they danced, Lili was impressed. Not impressed enough for what Trouble suggested, but quite a bit. They danced and talked and laughed at the stunned look on Chix Verbil's face. And Trouble drove Lili back to the academy after she had a few too many, walking the princess to her dorm room and leaving her unbothered by further advances. His legs swung and there was a spring to his step as the new cadet left the girls' dormitory, crossing the academy to reach the males' quarters. All the while, he repeated just one thing to himself, grinning madly each time.

"A Frond? I am nervous as _hell_."


	4. Little Mouse

_**I have seen you, little mouse,  
Running all about the house.** _

"You have the time for the exam, right, honey?"

"Yes, Mother. 10pm."

"And the place?"

"It's at the Plaza, Mother. Ground floor, room 105."

"And you can get a ride there? I have to take Jules in for playgroup, so I can't get you there."

"It's a five minute walk. I'll be fine."

"Well, make sure to leave at least a half-hour early. You know how foot traffic can get."

"Yes, Mother."

"And have a big breakfast."

"Of course, Mother."

"But not too big! Don't want to get sick."

" _Mother_ ," Turnball snapped, slamming his hand flat on the textbooks laid out in front of him, tearing a few pages on basic Haven law. "I _know_. I'm not a _child,_ like Julius!"

Removing a wooden spoon from the stockpot and standing with hips jutting to the side, fists pressed against them, Jenna Root glared across the kitchen at her son. "I am _trying_ to be _concerned_ , Turnball. This is your last chance to pass that test."

It wasn't his last chance to pass. Not really. The LEP would allow any fairy to sit the entrance exams, so long as they were old enough to qualify, no matter if they had already failed it multiple times, like he had. This was merely the last chance for him to pass before his father kicked the 120-year-old fairy out. The house was too small, the old elf had argued, and it was high time that Julius had his own bedroom. And, seeing as Turnball's room was the only bedroom besides the Master, that meant the elder brother either had to gain a place in the LEP—and thus the Academy dorms—or he could shift for himself.

Turnball couldn't exactly "shift for himself." He'd quietly returned home after Haven College had placed him on academic probation following his Freshman year, and then informed him the next year that post-college careers did not seem to be a good fit for the young man, and a field that required fewer qualifications might be better.

Coming home to the news that his mother was with child was not as heart-warming as Turnball had expected. He had wanted a little brother since he was aware his parents _could_ have more children, but the months had passed, and when the little Julius was laying at home in the fancy bassinet that the Roots could afford now that there wasn't college tuition to consider, Turnball had merely prodded the child a moment before returning to his bedroom. Very soon to be _their_ bedroom.

But Turnball didn't let any of that enter his voice as he sighed regretfully, letting his fingers push at the papers as he tried to piece them back together. "Sorry, Mother. I am under a lot of stress."

"I know, dear," Jenna soothed, smoothing out the front of her floral apron. "I just wish you'd been studying about half this hard for the past year, instead of putting it off until just this week."

"I have not been _putting it off_ ," Turnball sniffed, flipping to the nearest undamaged page. "I have an exceptional short-term memory. If I had tried to study all year, I wouldn't remember a thing. But if I cover everything this week, I'll be sure to pass."

"Is that what you tried with your college courses?" Jenna queried, sipping at the broth and tutting at it's exceptional blandness. She'd have to put some salt into her own bowl. A pity it couldn't go into the pot, but her husband was having heart problems, and she was under strict orders from his doctor to monitor the man's intake, before he had a coronary.

A tiny rip appeared near the spine of the book as Turnball Root turned the page too quickly. He scowled at the damage, but let it slide off. He would only need the books for a few more days, and then he could dump them in the trash. He'd heard the LEP had stopped using paper years ago, going all digital. What a relief that would be. No more dusty, archaic tomes crowding his living space.

When her son did not respond, Mrs. Root sighed, taking a chef's knife from the block, giving it a few quick swipes on the sharpening rod before attacking a row of pre-peeled carrots. The ceramic blade flew through the hard roots, and then through celery, and finally through an onion without arousing a single tear. As she swept each bunch onto the flat of the blade for deposit into the pot, she scowled. Something...missing.

"Oh, dear," she mumbled, shaking her head. "Potatoes. Always. Turnball, be a love and get me a few from the drawer, will you?"

Closing his eyes tight, Turnball counted slowly up in his head. "Mother...I. Am. _Busy_."

"It'll just take you a moment, and they're right next to you! Toss them over; I can catch."

"Get them yourself!"

"Turnball!" Jenna spun, glaring at her son. "What would your _father_ say?"

"That I'm the biggest disappointment of his life, and he really needs a scotch?" Turnball retorted, smiling when his mother flared momentarily, soon subsiding.

"Well," she whispered, gesturing at him with the knife, not considering its normal purpose as an element in her threat. Jenna Root was a true conservative female fairy. She'd been raised alongside her mother in the kitchen, and her sadly lost aspiration in life was that she hadn't had more children before the doctors informed her that birthing her second son had damaged her internally to such a degree that further pregnancies would be impossible. " _Well_ ," she repeated, "we'll just _see_ if that's what he says!

"Jules, honey?"

From the adjacent living room, where there had been somewhat muted mouth-sirens and little "pew pew pew!" noises, there came a short clatter of plastic as model LEP and LEFD cars were put down, presaging the appearance of the _pride and joy_ _._

"Yes, Mummy?" Julius Root said, sidling up to his mother and grabbing at her skirts.

"Would _you_ like to get me a few potatoes for the soup?"

Julius's brown eye lit up. He liked few foods better than potatoes, and nearly every meal they ate featured them in some way. "Yeah!" He nodded his head so vigorously that his red hair fell into his eyes, and he reached up with a slightly sticky hand to push it away.

"Get two nice _big_ ones, okay?" Jenna said, patting her youngest on the back to encourage him on.

" _Big_ ones!" Julius repeated in the style of all young children. "Big, big, _big potatoes!_ " He darted across the kitchen, barely avoiding braining himself on the corner of the table, but not managing to avoid jostling the chair in which his big brother sat.

"Watch it, _brat_ ," Turnball whispered, too low for his mother to hear. Instead of inspiring fear in the little monster, it seemed Julius was too excited about selecting the biggest, _best-est_ potatoes for dinner, pulling the drawer open with such a strong jerk that it slid to the limits, ending with a loud bang and small squeaks.

_**Through the hole your little eye  
In the wainscot peeping sly.** _

"Meeses!" Julius shrieked in delight.

Putting down her knife, Jenna turned again to face her youngest. "'Meeses,' dear?"

"Little fuzzy meeses!" Julius repeated, pointing into the drawer. "There's a big gray one and a bunch of little pink ones!" After a pause to watch the discovery, he turned to his mother, eyes wide in panic. "The pink ones are eating the gray one!"

Hearing these distressing words, Jenna sprang into action, crossing the kitchen and kneeling at her son's side, looking into the pantry drawer.

"Oh!" She said, then laughed. "Not 'meeses,' Jules, baby. 'Mice!'"

Julius looked at her, perplexed. "Not...meeses?"

She shook her head. "One mouse, two _mice_."

Scowling, Julius thought. "Three...mice?"

Ruffling her son's hair, Jenna laughed. "Right! Four mice, five mice, thousands of mice! Well...hopefully not thousands." She tutted at the little intruders.

The grammatical information absorbed, Julius's lower lip began to wobble. "Mice...eating the _mouse_. Stop them, Mummy!" He looked truly distressed, not sure how to save the small, gray victim of cannibalizism. The thought of simply picking it up had, luckily, not occurred to the boy.

"They're not _eating_ her, honey," Mrs. Root soothed, wrapping her arms about her son and pulling him to her chest, to give the suddenly startled mother rodent some space and mind's ease. "Those are her _babies_. She's _feeding_ them."

Julius looked perplexed. "Why doesn't she just feed them potatoes?"

Gritting his teeth, Turnball began to drum his fingers on his book. Who in the underworld could _study_ with such idiotic conversation going on _right in their ears_?

_**Hoping soon some crumbs to steal  
To make quite a hearty meal.** _

"They're too little, honey," Jenna said. "While they're really small, she _nurses_ them. See, their little mouths aren't biting her, they're drinking. She's got milk inside her!" Smiling and hugging her son tight, Jenna decided to send him reeling a bit. "Just like you did with me."

Julius's eyes went wide. "You had _milk_ inside you?"

"Yep!"

"But...then why do we get it from the store?"

"Oh, that milk was _just_ for you, and when I ran out, we had to get it from the store, from then on."

Looking up to his mother's face, Julius said, "Why was it just for me?"

"Because if we all drank it," Turnball said softly, "Mother would be even more saggy and used up than she already is."

"Turnball!" Standing, Jenna thrust a finger towards the kitchen door and down the halls. "Go. To. Your. _Room_."

"Mother, really," Turnball muttered, leafing through his book, temper eased by his mother's rise, "I'm one-hundred-and-twenty years old. You can't just send me to bed without supper like I'm in primary school."

"So long as you live under _my_ roof," she said, words shaking in rage, "and don't do _your_ part by paying _rent_ or getting a few _damned_ potatoes when I ask, I can do whatever I want. So get out of my kitchen, and stay in your room until your father comes home. _Then_ we'll _really_ see what he has to say." Realizing that she had cursed in front of her impressionable youngest, she flicked her eyes down, but, when Julius didn't repeat her, she looked back to her problem child. " _Now."_

"If you _insist._ Don't go into some sort of...hysterics. I'll go." Standing, Turnball swept up his papers and books, taking everything in one large armful. As he stood, he looked down his nose, first at his little brother, who watched him with wide eyes, and then to the pantry drawer, where a small family of mice was indeed nestled into a corner, amidst what looked to be shavings from the pink napkins stored a few levels up. Smirking, he turned away, going down the hall and to his room, locking it for a bit of peace.

Women. Really. So...emotional.

_**Look before you venture out,  
See if pussy is about.** _

Reginald Root wasn't the most sober man, but he was at least a family man. Turnball had no memories of his father raising a hand to anyone, but the idea began to press on him when his father demanded to be let into the bedroom, and then locked to door behind him. Turnball had been routinely exercising, in preparation for the exams, but his father still had a good stone on him, all in muscle, and the man wasn't even LEP.

The sight of Mr. Root's deep red face and the sound of his very, very quiet words were sufficient to convince his son to apologize to his mother. She had kept a placid face, never letting her eyes off the young man as she addressed her husband, asking if Turnball would be joining them for dinner. Turnball wished the answer had been 'no.'

Sitting at the kitchen table, listening as Julius prattled on about the rodent residents of the kitchen, Reginald nodding intently, Turnball felt a heat rising in his gut. When Julius hopped off his booster seat and took his father's hand, pulling him to the pantry drawer and showing the animals, Reginald whispered in appreciation, but told his youngest that he would have to get someone in to remove the new family. When Julius began to tear up, his father explained the People's no-kill policies, describing the pet store owners that would care for the little ones until they grew to love humans and could be given to good families, and the mother released back into the wild (minus the ability to breed, though Reginald left that bit out).

When Julius giggled and asked his father if maybe _he_ could adopt one of the babies, Turnball asked to be excused to study. A request his mother readily granted.

When Jenna came in hours later to sing her youngest to sleep, she found Turnball had moved his desk so it faced against the far wall, pulling the tiny halogen lamp down so close to the page that his face received no illumination. She didn't say anything, however, glad that the concentrated lighting would not keep Julius up and make him cranky the next morning, as he had been for the past week.

When the house had quieted, and an hour further after that, Turnball pushed his light even further down on the pages, almost completely blocking it off. Making sure he moved slowly, so the chair did not squeak, he stood and went to the door, cracking it open and peeking out.

_**If she's gone, you'll quickly run  
To the larder for some fun.** _

As he suspected, no one was out of their rooms. Still, he crept down the hall and into the kitchen, where he took a flashlight from one of the drawers. Turning it on, he then shielded it with one hand, leaving only a red glow to see by. With his nocturnal eyes, it was plenty. After a bit of searching in another drawer, he came up with a sugar cookie. He smiled. Perfect.

He sat on the floor and eased the pantry drawer out. Holding his hand over the root vegetables, he peeked in.

The mother mouse was still inside, licking behind the largest pup's ears. When Turnball chuckled, she stopped licking, settling her paws over her babies, nose twitching. Except for accidents, elves had never been a danger to mice. Dwarves, perhaps, but not elves. So she sniffed the air, spotted tail joining her paws in guarding her children, but did not flee.

"Such a good mother," Turnball purred. "You didn't even leave to eat, and with all this good food out here..." Carefully, he broke off a tiny bit of the cookie, easing his hand inside to offer it to the mouse. "Here. You must be hungry, after all that work."

The mouse sniffed, neck stretching out to get closer to the enticing treat. Her little eyes flickered between the proffered food and the elf's face. Her tiny tongue darted out, but could not reach. She really was starving...

With a few false starts, she unwound herself from the sleeping brood, standing on her back legs and reaching out to gingerly take the cookie bit from Turnball's hand. She sat slowly, judging him. When he made no swift moves, she sniffed the tidbit again and nibbled a side. Whiskers shaking with pleasure, she began to chew vigorously.

"Good, right? Mother makes wonderful cookies." Smiling, Turnball rested his cheek on the drawer's edge, watching the pups kick about, disturbed by the temporary leave from their mother. It was all so...cute...

One—the smallest, he thought—squeaked as it felt warmth fading at it's back, crawling away from it's family. The mother mouse watched her runt closely, but did not move quite yet. An inch or two was quite safe.

"Getting away," Turnball commented, reaching into the drawer.

The mother stopped, letting her cookie fall towards her stomach, and squeaked a warning.

"Shhh, shhh...it's okay," Turnball soothed, resting the very tip of his index finger on the pup's head. It was a touch lighter than a feather, and the pup only jerked it's head in surprise before leaning blindly into the warmth.

The mother mouse watched carefully.

"So small..." Turnball moved his finger oh so carefully along the newborns spine, tickling the tail, and then returning to the head for another tender stroke. "You must love him, right?"

The mother squeaked softly, wanting to dart forward, but remained unsure. She had heard stories from the other mice. Some of these Big Ones kept her kind in special homes and fed them wonderful foods—like the sweet crumbly thing, she realized—and gave them such an easy life that they were more likely to die of overeating than of illness. Maybe that was what this one wanted?

Switching to small squeaks in the mouse's native tongue, Turnball went on. "Good mother. Protect?"

Squeaking "yes," the mother mouse let her tongue flick out to lick at her food. "Love."

"To protect? Should...go." Turnball hissed.

Then he pressed down.

He didn't even feel the bones crack as the pup's back legs were crushed.

He could certainly hear the cry of pain, though.

The mother mouse dropped her food, but could not move. Her eyes were fully widened in an instant, and her breathing and heartbeat was so fast that she could almost feel her little life ready to spring away, lost to fear.

" _Go_ ," Turnball repeated, bringing his long-uncut nail down on the pup's spine, slicing it in half.

The squeaking stopped, but the body continued to twitch, tiny droplets of blood oozing out.

With jaws that could be so terribly powerful, but now were schooled to softness, the mother took hold of her largest child by it's scruff, backing away from this monster. It was like one of those...those... _humans_ her own mother had told her about!

" _GO!_ " Turnball squeaked as loud as he dared, finally feeling bones breaking as he brought his thumb down on the tiny pink thing's head, splitting it apart, sending a bit of white goo out to join the red blood.

With a cry of anguish, the mother sprang, scrambling onto the back edge of the drawer. She paused there, looking over her shoulder, first at the rest of her pups, and then to the Big One.

Watching her closely, Turnball raised his hand, thumb held apart. He sniffed it. Very...unusual... Experimentally, his tongue came out, tip tickling against the ooze on his print. Then flattening to lick himself clean. He smiled, running his tongue along one incisor.

Without another sound, the female mouse was gone, racing to one of her boltholes.

_**Round about the dishes creep,  
Taking into each a peep.** _

Turnball looked down at the rest of the family. Four more. Oh, the things he could do in this kitchen with four little pink things to experiment with...

Then he shook his head. Really, he had to study. That exam wasn't going to pass itself.

Opening another drawer, he took out a napkin, pinching up the bits of the pup's body, wiping away the blood as best he could. His mother would blame the rest of the blood on normal birthing fluids, no doubt.

Humming to himself, he stood and went out the back door, crossing the tropically blooming garden to the recycling lounge. Once inside, he locked the door behind him and turned on the light, turning to face the lounge as he opened the napkin.

He could barely make out the bits of the pup. The tail was easy enough, but the rest was only discernible by it's relation to the tail. He laughed when he poked about and found one of the eyes, opened by the pressure of his thumb, and pinched at it, making the tiny black thing pop like a fish egg. The second eye was already crushed by the earlier pressure, and he scowled, throwing the napkin into the water.

Before he grabbed the handle to flush, he paused. He really did need to study, and any interruption would be an irritation. And, without this calming outlet, even a few minutes gone could sour him for the entire night. With a smile, Turnball unzipped his jeans and took himself out, aiming at the bowl

When the stream did not come, he scowled, squeezing. Oh, but of course. He was hard. He considered taking care of that, but pushed the thought aside. He could wait. After a minute, the young man softened and let loose with a sharp-smelling yellow stream that hit the napkin right in the center, sinking it and the rodent to the bottom of the lounge.

 _Well, well,_ he thought with a smile, _maybe I'll be a good shot once I get a gun to work with..._ Finishing with a few shakes, Turnball tucked himself back in and washed his hands. Then, looking at the yellow water and the pink napkin almost hidden at the bottom, the pup completely lost to view, he pressed the handle and watched as the water swirled away, replaced with something pure.

_**To choose the daintiest that's there,  
Spoiling things you do not care.** _

He was humming again as he came back into the house, but stopped at the threshold to the kitchen.

Julius was sitting next to the drawer, looking inside, lower lip trembling. When he heard his brother approaching, he looked up, tears falling down his cheeks.

"The mommy mouse is gone! I wanted to see her again..."

Craning his head, Turnball looked inside, sighing in relief to find all the pups were gone as well. Then he scowled. The beast had been confident enough to return _four times_ while he was gone? The cheek!

"W-will she come back, big brother?" Julius wiped at his face, looking at his elder imploringly.

After a pause, Turnball patted at his lips, then smiled, poking his brother's nose. "If you're a very good boy, I bet she'll tell her friends about you, and they'll tell _their_ friends, and, when Mother and Father take you to a pet store, all the mice will just come _running_ to see you!"

"Really!" Julius sprang to his feet, beaming. "You think so!"

"Oh, yes. A cute one like you?" Turnball ruffled his brother's hair, earning a momentary sullen look, replaced by more smiling. "You'll get the best of the lot."

"Wooooow!" Julius bounced happily. "And you'll come see it?"

Turnball shivered at the idea, smiling. "I'd _love_ to."

"And I'll name it 'Captain,' cause that's what you're going to be!"

Raising his eyebrows, Turnball grinned. "Really? You think so? A captain?"

"Uh huh!" Puffing his chest out, Julius tried to speak with a deep voice. "And, when I'm old enough, I'll join the LEP, too, and I'll be your Lieutenant!"

"Well, well," chuckled Turnball, laying a soft hand on his brother's shoulder. "Then you should get studying right away. Can you read, yet?"

Wilting, Julius shook his head. "No...can count, though! One, two, three, four...um..." He blinked. "Four..."

"That's pretty good," Turnball said, letting his hand fall so he pressed on his brother's back, guiding him back to their joint bedroom. "I think you should keep practicing that, and, once you're ready for them, I'll give you my old textbooks, okay?"

Biting his lip, Julius gave his elder brother a concerned look. "Wontcha need them?"

"Nah," the man said, giving his protege a cocky grin. "I know everything. They're all yours."

" _Really?_ " Julius breathed. In a rush, he wrapped his hands about Turnball's legs in a nearly tripping hug. "You're the best big brother _ever!_ "

"Shh!" Turnball urged, laughing softly as they came to the bedroom door. "Don't wanna wake Father. Come on. All the best lieutenants make sure to get their sleep, so they can be ready to protect Haven."

"Right!" Julius gave his brother a very serious, but very clumsy salute. "The Lower Elements Police, here to protect and serve!"

"That's right," Turnball purred, ushering his little brother in to bed. "That is _exactly_ right..."


	5. Coke means...

"Well?" Britva said, crushing out a cigar as his subordinates came into the office. He waved his hand about his face, pushing away the halo of smoke, and leaned back in his chair to watch the pair arrange themselves, each trying to remain a half-step further back than the other. After a few seconds of this, Britva cleared his throat, making the men freeze, eyes wide

"Where's the product?" Britva's voice was gravelly from years of abuse, ranging from his smoking and drinking habits to yelling at the top of his lungs as he "conversed" with "reluctant informants." Britva was a large man, in all senses of the word. Large in voice, large in body (though mostly muscle), and large in power. Few men in the world held more power than the mafiya boss, and no one in Russia held more sway. The Russian president may have said otherwise to the press, but even he accepted 3am phone calls from Britva.

The grating in the words made Vassikin flinch. What he had to say was likely to get him killed, but attempting to run away from the kingpin would be a guaranteed bullet in the back. "Well...there's been a little...misunderstanding, it seems."

"Misunderstanding," Britva shot back, rising slowly to his feet. He continued to speak evenly, but the tension in his shoudlers betrayed his rising fury. "Misunderstanding? I'm gonna be nice, Vassikin, and give you a warning: I have had a long fucking day, so I'd better see that damn product on my desk in the next three seconds, or I will shove a rifle down your damned pants and then flip a coin to see if you or Boris here will be pulling the trigger."

CLANG

Britva looked down at the object that had been thrown on his desk. It had landed sideways, and the aluminum cylinder continued rolling towards him, the silver English words standing out against a red background. Before it could fall off the edge of his desk, he snatched it up, reading with ease. His subordinates may have had issues with the language, but he sounded it out perfectly. "Coca...cola?" He scowled at Vassikin. "What the fuck is this?"

The younger, so-much-more-expendable man swallowed and gestured at the can. "It's...a soft drink. A cola. A—"

"I KNOW WHAT A DAMNED SODA IS!" Britva bellowed, throwing the can with all his might.

It smashed into the face of Vassikin's partner, Boris, crushing his nose and sending him to a heap on the floor. A pool of blood began to form about his head, and he twitched slightly, breath bubbling.

Britva ignored the critical wound, voice going even deeper, shaking the pictures on their frames. "WHERE IS THE PRODUCT, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!"

"That's it!" Vassikin squealed back, pointing at the bloody can of soda. "It was a mistake! Our English informant said soda, and Tatyana said cola, then Viktor said Coca-cola, and Mikhail told us it was Coke!"

Having only heard half the words, Britva crashed around the edge of his desk, yanking a pistol from his pocket. He grabbed Vassikin's lapels, pulling him up until his toes barely brushed the floor. He shoved the burnished barrel into the man's mouth, making his eyes bulge, a strangled scream escaping the hardened mafiya member.

Then Britva began to roar again. "YOU FUCKING COCKSUCKER, WHERE IS MY GOD DAMNED PRODUCT! WHO DO YOU THINK YOU WORK FOR? WHO RUNS THIS FESTERING, SYPHILITIC ASS OF A..."

He paused. He blinked. His tone went completely normal again as he spoke again. "Coke...Coca...cola?"

Vassikin nodded, whimpering as tears rolled down his cheeks, his lips still stretched tight about the barrel of the gun. He could taste the used-up gunpowder of previous firings. Britva was terrible about keeping his pieces clean.

"Not coke...cocaine?" Britva went on.

Vassikin barely moved his head to shake "no," knowing the slightest pressure on that trigger would create a red smear on the wall behind him, completely ruining the stolen Derain that decorated that space of the office.

After a long pause, and a glance down at the soda (completely ignoring the now-still mafiya underling), Britva began to laugh. It began small, but only for a scant few seconds, and then it became a roar. The kind of laugh that would scare off a bear or, in the most dire of situations, rival crime lords. "We attacked...that Irlandski...for _soda!_ "

Laughing nervously about the metal, Vassikin nodded. The gesture made Britva laugh even louder, half his breaths now coming in desperate wheezes.

"Coke! Ah ha! That Fowl..." Britva took the gun from Vassikin's mouth, letting him settle to the ground and slapping the man on the back. "What he must have thought..."

Vassikin's laughter began to go up in volume to somewhat match his boss's, losing it's squeakiness "Yeah...shooting at his ship, sending out all those men...must have confused the hell out of him, huh?"

Britva nodded, wiping at his eyes to remove the tears. "Oh yeah. Me, sending out all those resources, all that money...for some soda!" He laughed again.

Then he straightened his gun arm and pulled the trigger.

The body of Vassikin's partner jerked, and the floor was suddenly covered by a three foot circle of blood and gray brain matter, a puff of wood shards rising up where the flooring exploded under the bullet's impact. The body stopped jerking, and simply stared up at Vassikin. Or stared as much as a body can, when there is a gaping, smoking hole where the eyes should have been. Boris retained one eye, actually, though it hung by a thin line of nerves, swinging in the black hole of a face, dripping.

Vassikin stopped laughing, and a sour-smelling trail of urine ran down his leg, ruining another section of Bitva's expensive wood flooring.

Sighing, Britva squeezed Vassikin's shoulder, jerking him back and forth in a friendly manner. "All that _money._ How about you go back to the bay and find something to make me a profit, hmmm? Maybe Fowl, for a ransom."

Vassikin nodded, eyes still trained on his partner as he backed away from the mafiya boss and grasped wildly for the door handle, leaving without a word.

Britva waited for the door to close. Then he looked at the body.

He bent over, picking up the soda can, and began to chuckle, tossing it gently. "Coca-cola..."

He strode back to his desk and sat, picking up his phone. "Yes, Lubov. Send in a cleaning crew, will you? Yes, dear, again. Just do as I say. There's a love." Smiling, he set his phone back down. "Coca-cola...Fowl's face must have been priceless."

Britva rubbed the can on his shirt, removing the blood smear from the lip and ruining the fine blue cotton. With another chuckle, he flicked the tab and the room was filled with a small hiss and sizzle. Studying the design for a moment, he tipped the can to his lips and took a deep drink.

"Ah!" He coughed, shocked. Then smacked his lips, grinning. "Fizzy...not bad." Leaning back in his chair, he slammed his shoes to the desktop and settled in. He began to hum to himself. An English song, and perhaps not the most popular of tunes, but catchy, especially in such a situation as this.

"I'd like to buy the world a home, and furnish it with love...grow apple trees and honey bees and snow-white turtle doves. Ah..." He took another drink, laughing at the popping sensation in his nose. Not as good as vodka, but not bad at all.


	6. Fighter

Arnica Vinyáya could already feel her muscles seizing up by the time Recon Commander Luka decided that the LEP's warrant officers weren't a complete disgrace. Already a good half-dozen had fallen out, gasping in pain and complaining of one cramp of sprain or other injury, and she had seriously been considering just collapsing to the floor before the next gym-wide series of leg lunges could begin. It was all she could do to stand still as he spent the last five minutes of the class screaming at them about their poor form (a full minute directly in front of herself, staring straight into her eyes, so close that she could smell the day-old garlic pizza that must have been his lunch), but she managed to remain in suitable form until he disgustedly said they could go.

She didn't rush straight to the gym, like most of the officers. Instead, she kept her eyes on the other recent graduates, going over what she knew of them in her head. Not the goblins. She'd done that once, and it had ended badly enough that she knew to never try them again, even if new, unfamiliar recruits came in. Dwarves were generally safe—the racist bastards—but there weren't any in training that day. They never did well with the more intense martial arts, instead going to a nearby field and learning whatever secret digging techniques the senior dwarf officers could pass along. Sprites? Oh, _hell_ no. Pixies...sometimes. Other times, they had something to prove. And elves...well, elves could go either way. All depending on which elf.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she noticed one particular elf was close by. She picked up her pace as they approached the locker room doors. There was a bottleneck right before and she barely managed to cut in front of Root, keeping her place before him as they went through the doors and into the half-dozen rows of dark green steel lockers. She veered to the right, leaving Root to go down the middle aisle, muttering about impatient females. She let it pass. She always let his comments pass, because Root...well, he was the best option, even if he didn't realize his distinction. Not that he didn't make his often contrary feelings about her known, but he at least seemed to have some discretion.

Vinyáya's fingers were quick on the combo lock—almost as quick as they were on a trigger, and for nearly the same purpose—and she slammed the door as she opened it, making sure her nearest locker-mates—a pixie five units down on the left and an elf seven down on the right—knew that today was _not_ a day to mess with her. Much like every other day. The message seemed to be received well enough, as they went about stripping off their white gis without commenting on her own de-robing, though they did glance over as she slid her fingers under the elastic of her navy blue sports bra and peeled it off, her breasts bouncing free. They seemed to appreciate the moment, but she just looked at the bra in disgust, sniffing it experimentally before shrugging and putting it on the hook on the back of the locker's door, there to hang and dry for at least one more training session before laundry day. She didn't do the same with her underwear, putting those in a plastic bag along with a few older pairs, the measure meant to keep down the smell until she remembered to take it all home. Not that she was doing anything major for the olfactory quality of the locker room; she was pretty certain the officer whose locker was right next to hers had been on vacation for two weeks and had forgotten his lunch leftovers in his unit right before he left.

Closing her door and spinning the lock—one time _not_ doing that and she'd learned her lesson—Vinyáya turned and walked past the pixie. She walked on the balls of her feet, making herself a little taller and tensing her legs as she went, prepared to jump aside at the smallest shift in the air. None came this time—rare indeed—and she also managed to get past the other four officers on her row with only a few comments, coming out almost directly into the communal shower stall. There were a few other officers there already, evenly spaced out, as male propriety demanded, and steam was beginning to infest the air. Like the lockers themselves, the locker room showers had six aisles down the middle, though the sea-green tiles only rose to chest height, with poles rising further to the shower heads. Though the number of aisles was the same, there were significantly fewer stalls than lockers, so none were assigned to any officer, but plenty of her coworkers had established preferences since graduation a few months ago. There was something of the police superstition to that, but it was also a matter of positioning oneself near the officers you'd prefer to talk to during this small bit of downtime, making it fairly easy to figure out where people would likely go. The officers already showering had brought a few extra supplies with them—preferred shampoos or scrubbing brushes—but Vinyáya had not bothered with such cumbersome extras, and so she picked a stall on the rightmost wall, kicking the lower handle at the same time as she twisted the one above, turning on both the shower head over her and the faucet near her feet.

Vinyáya hadn't understood why each shower stall had a faucet when she was first accepted into the academy. Now, though, she understood completely: martial arts training led to some pretty disgusting feet. She'd seen some of the guys after longer sparring sessions. The soles of their feet were almost black, and some of them were prone to cracking if they didn't pay attention to the condition of their skin. She made a point of moisturizing her feet when she got home, and this had managed to save her from looking too gross, but even now she sported a thick layer of grime. Leaning against the wall, she pumped out a handful of the LEP's free soap and got to scrubbing. It took her almost a minute to realize that one mark that she'd been trying hard to get rid of was actually a developing bruise, and she groaned, hanging her head, her long red hair catching in the downpour, silken strands shifting to cover her eyes. Perfect. She'd be limping if she didn't go see the resident nurse and get a pack to focus the magic. She was utter crap at healing, and she would not risk it on something this small. If she didn't do it right, the magic could run rampant in her muscles, healing them instead of letting them heal naturally. She was not going to let go of the potential muscle growth that came from natural healing, even if she walked funny for a few days.

"Awwwww...ruin your pedi?"

Vinyáya's nails dug into her bruise, the pain reminding her to get in control. She let her foot go, placing it carefully on the floor and again rising to the balls of her feet. She lifted her head, letting the hot water shift it once more, now taking it out of her eyes, the longest strands going down to her breasts, covering her nipples, if not the entirety of her chest.

Looking down at her was one of the larger goblins, his long tail brushing the floor, moving the suds back and forth as it slowly lashed. His arms were crossed close to his chest, but he'd set his legs at a bit more than shoulder's width, displaying himself proudly.

Vinyáya's eyes shot away, and she felt a burn in her cheeks. She didn't want to think about how she looked in this moment, but it was almost impossible not to see her reflection in his dark eyes. Wet. Tall for an elf, but very thin. She'd tried to bulk up, but even if her strength increased, her size did not, as if all the muscles just became denser. The one time she'd tried to go the other route and bulk up via massive amounts of sweets, it had all just gone to her chest and hips, and a bit to her lips, which had the exact opposite effect of what she'd gone for. Not even her hair had been an effective deterrent. Apparently, no one cared as much about genetic taints in the locker room as they did in their civvies. She'd finally gone back to dying it red, but she had a good inch of silver roots that needing touching up, which she could _not_ afford to do on a warrant officer's salary. Not this month, at least.

Vinyáya tried to think of the proper response here. Words were always ineffective on a goblin. A poor insult, and she just seemed pathetic. A good one, and they didn't understand why the other officers were laughing, and that just enraged the goblin, and enraged goblins were...not good times.

Her eyes darted at the other men who had joined her in this section of the shower, and she almost cursed. Here was a lesson, she reflected. No matter how gross she felt, waiting for the other officers to pick their spots, _then_ choosing the best option among them was a good idea. Two of them—both pixies, but rather bulky, all things considered—weren't too familiar to her, but the others were old acquaintances. The sprite in the stall to the right and behind the goblin had been in her same year in the Academy, and had been in the dorm directly across from hers. He'd complained a lot about special treatment for females after her only room mate had dropped out of the Academy (and had never told Vinyáya why, but the whispers and chuckles among the men painted an all-too-detailed picture), with himself and most of the other male recruits tripled in rooms. The fairies to the left were brothers, but only through their father. Not that they'd ever told her that, but it didn't take much thinking to get why the pair shared the same last name but only appeared to be a year or two apart in age. And the fact that the shorter was all-elf and the taller had the stunted wings of a half-sprite...well, their dad must have some interesting deductions in his paycheck.

Vinyáya's throat burned as she swallowed, her mouth dry despite the torrent over her head and the moisture in the air. She raised her eyes just a little, looking to the officers the next row over. Almost all of those on the near side of that row had their heads down, some even using the excuse of scrubbing shampoo into their hair to explain why their eyes were trained on the ground. The majority of the officers on the other side had their backs to her, and some were humming to themselves. And a few from both sides...they were looking right at her. Almost all of them smirking.

Except one. Root's eyes were narrowed, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he grasped the shower knob, turning it until the water turned off. He began to walk towards the lockers, glancing back at her. He drifted left. Away from his middle-row locker.

The beat of Vinyáya's heart faltered. _No_. He couldn't...join— Oh, gods, no! She...

She turned her back on the cretin, sticking a hand under the shampoo dispenser and punching the button several times. She soon had far too much for even her waist-length hair, and she took her hands away, noting how they shook as they were brought to her head.

"Oh, good idea," the hissing goblin spoke again.

Vinyáya's ears twitched at each wet footfall and she nearly jerked away as a scaly hand brushed over her own, scraping some of the shampoo off of her palm. She could feel the warm-blooded body behind her. To either side of her, a pair of the goblin's cronies stepped up. One of the pixies had broken off and was facing the end of the aisle. Every voice but the goblins had become muffled in her head, but she knew that the pixie said something to the approaching Root, to which many of the other fairies laughed.

"I don't want to hurt you, after all," the goblin continued, his hand disappearing.

Root's mouth opened, and whatever he said was loud, but Vinyáya could not hear it over the soft but so...very... _close_ sound that came from the goblin. Slow. Rhythmic. And, as it got faster, the goblin came closer, his hot breath on the back of Vinyáya's neck. He whispered directly in her ear. "Hold still."

Vinyáya had only fainted once in her life, back in college, when she'd run the 3000m steeplechase, pushing herself past her personal record trying to beat Atlantis U's best runners. She'd reached the finish line, taken second, and dimly noticed white and black tendrils at the edge of her vision, her next thought being about why her coach was screaming in her face and slapping her. She saw those tendrils again. More like...cracks in her vision. First mostly white, as if someone had trained a floodlight on the drama. Then lines of black, like a deadly infection. Fainting...maybe...she smiled a little. Okay...yes, okay...

Root screamed something, his broad chest slamming into the pixie, knocking him back, but not completely down or out of the way. The smaller fairy came back at him, swinging a tight fist, which was blocked, and another, which was not. The elf grunted at the impact to his stomach, and then came back with a punch of his own, trying to both do as his instructor had taught him and focus on the fight, and look beyond to the female elf. He screamed something again.

"Good girl," the goblin moaned.

Vinyáya's brows furrowed. Her vision had almost completely whited out, and the black lines writhed like tentacles. "Huh...?"

"Very...good...so...cooperative..."

Vinyáya turned her head at the feel of something rough on her shoulder, watching as a long green tongue rasped over her skin, leaving behind a red, rapidly rising welt on her skin, pockmarked with drops of blood. " _What?"_

The goblin chuckled, resting a hand on her hip, pressing his chest tight to her spine.

Something prodded low against Vinyáya's backside.

The whiteness covered her vision.

And the black fled.

Vinyáya's eyes darted about the blindingly bright room.

Her lips twitched.

Vinyáya clapped her soap-filled hands together and pulled them apart just as fast, thrusting them backwards, palms cupped, slapping over the goblin's eyes. His lidless eyes.

He hissed and the tongue retracted, and he must have been about to say something, because his mouth opened, blasting her nostrils with the smell of rotting meat caught between his teeth.

The word was lost in a screech of pain as she twisted her hands, thumbs coming up and digging into the corners of the goblin's eyes. Shampoo squished into the sensitive membranes, which was no doubt painful, but not nearly so much as when her long nails—yes, manicured, thank you!—cut into the thin tissues between the eyes and the goblin's skull, cutting until her nails bent, which was likely when they hit bone. The goblin's cry rose and he jerked back. Vinyáya winced at a sudden and familiar pain as the false nail on her right hand was ripped off, remaining lodged in the corner of the goblin's eye.

She spun on one foot, aided by the slick, wet tiles, planting it back down behind her, lowering her body so her back leg was straight and the foreleg bent, her fists both tight at her sides. She looked straight ahead at the goblin, who was clawing at his face, finally managing to dislodge the nail, which skittered towards the drain, his face now covered in twin bloody tear-tracks.

The creature looked at her, eyes milky, blinking rapidly as it tried to get rid of the last of the shampoo. "You...cunt!"

Vinyáya tilted her head and thrust out her lower lip. "But...I'm a _good girl!_ "

Opening his mouth so wide that Vinyáya got a good look at every tooth and far back into his throat, the goblin let out a noise that was some mix of roar and hiss. Then it leapt, talons flashing in the overhead lights.

Vinyáya let him hit her, putting her hands under his armpits and bending her back with the impact, moving her head to one side. The goblin kept going, ridged carapace slamming into the tiles. There was a loud crack, and Vinyáya wasn't sure if it was the tile or his skull, but she didn't really care. The goblin was stunned, and she took the few seconds respite she had, pushing him to the side and slipping out from under his body, feet sliding over the tiles so she moved behind him. Grabbing the end of his tail, she wrapped it about her back and over her shoulder, gripping it with both hands. She planted her foot midway up the tail and stomped down at the same time as she twisted her shoulder.

The goblin's feet skidded out from under him as he was put out of balance, his head striking the faucet as he went down, a new red line joining the twins from his eyes.

She pulled harder. Pressed her foot down until it touched the ground. Arched her back until she felt a sudden extra quarter-inch of slack. Then another and another as the vertebrae in the goblin's tail dislocated one by one. Apparently, the male hadn't blacked out at the head trauma, because he began to screech again, clawed hands and feet scrambling on the tile, trying to pull himself away from the elf. Which just made her job easier.

Vinyáya looked at the other five fairies from the goblin's gang. She smiled sweetly and bent the lizard-man's tail back on itself, wrapping her hand about the bend and squeezing with all of her strength until she felt a sudden movement, accompanied by a snap that filled the locker room.

She blinked and looked at the tail. Huh...she could hear correctly, now. And _wow_ , she'd never heard _those_ words before. Goblins were good at one thing, at least.

"Bitch!" The sprite bellowed, running forward.

Vinyáya spun, unwrapping herself from the tail, but still holding onto the end, pulling it tight once more. The stupid sprite ran right into it, his headlong charge not giving him time to react, and he flew through the air, wings snapping open to make his descent easier. It was only a small improvement, but it saved him enough so all he did was slide over the floor for a few feet, the air knocked out of his lungs.

Vinyáya let the goblin's tail go and leapt after the sprite, landing on his back, going into a crouch, hands held to her side for stability. She looked like some sort of posturing raptor, and she waited a second in that position, right up until the sprite turned his head sideways, one eye looking up at her.

Then she let herself fall down, clawed hands hitting the sprite's open wings, her weight keeping her going until the membrane was caught between her manicure and the tiles.

Bereft of air, the sprite could only open his mouth in an attempt at a scream, eyes straining out of their sockets. He bucked, trying to dislodge the elf, but she was planted too firmly.

Vinyáya jerked her arms in towards her body, nails dragging down the sprite's wings, cutting nine lines straight through to the tiles. Vinyáya mourned the earlier loss of one nail, as it ruined the lovely symmetry. At least one of the cuts must have hit one of the wings' many major veins, as the green tile was soon grouted in red.

Vinyáya stood up swiftly. She tilted her head to the left, the ear on that side tingling just in time to warn her to sidestep, going back into forward stance. She put her arm out, using it as an axis on which to launch the stampeding full-elf, who landed perfectly on the sprite below, their heads and asses aligning, the softness of the landing pad saving the new attacker from a cracked skull.

Vinyáya looked down past her breasts, fire exploding in her chest as the male looked up at her, mouth opening to say something. Maybe to ask a favor of his conqueror.

She brought her rear leg up, almost as if she were attacking the groin of an invisible attacker, but, instead of putting it back into the ready position, she pointed her foot and slammed it down. Vinyáya's toenails hit precisely on the side of the elf's head, cutting into his sensitive ear, creating yet another red stream. The elf had just begun to scream when Vinyáya brought her foot back and this time kicked, her foot curved so the ball and base of her toes slammed into the elf's mutilated ear. Once. Twice. Three times. He stopped screaming.

Apparently, the remaining members of her little squad of suitors—the half-elf half-sprite and the pixie—were smart enough to learn from the last thirty seconds' display, and they came at Vinyáya from either side. She tried to just step back so they would slam into one another, but they weren't nearly that blinded by the blood and sex in the air, both going into spinning kicks, as if they had agreed on the choreography earlier. One hit her front, the other her back, and Vinyáya spun with the impacts, losing her balance and slamming against the chest-high divider wall face-first. Her right incisor took the brunt, the tip breaking off, leaving a jagged edge in her mouth. Her tongue had come between her top and bottom left incisor, softening their impact, but cutting through the flesh. Her mouth flooded with blood in seconds, dribbling out of the corners of her lips.

"You _bitch_ ," the half-elf snarled, grabbing the back of her neck and forcing Vinyáya to turn her head to look at him. "You're gonna regret this." He pressed down on her neck, trying to force her legs to bend and send her to her knees before him. "You fucking—"

Vinyáya spat, lips in a tight 'O.' She was so glad some of the grosser, but friendlier cadets had decided to teach the girlie recruit to act more like a man. It meant she had perfect aim. Her blood and saliva went straight into the elf's open, screaming mouth, and he gagged, stepping back, loosening his grip on her neck. She lashed out at him with her hands, once again clawed, swiping across his eyes, leaving four lines, the head wounds soon bleeding almost as much as her mouth or his brother's ear, blinding the fourth attacker.

She spun once more, facing the pixie, sinking back into forward stance.

Having lost his partner and gained a little sense, the pixie took a step back, putting his hands up.

"Moron," Vinyáya muttered, feet sliding forward, back leg coming up and snapping out, hips twisting until both of her legs were straight lines, right-angled, her foot slamming into the pixie's face. The impact sent him crashing back, and he was either instantly knocked out by her side kick or had just forgotten how to fall properly, because his arms failed to go back to soften the impact. His spine hit without any cushioning, his head cracking on the tile a split-second later. If he wasn't out when he fell, there was no way he was still awake now.

Vinyáya looked over her shoulder at the half-elf, waiting for him to resume the attack, but he had lost all desire to fight, backing up, both hands covering his ruined face until he tripped over the sprites wing, falling on it and sending up another sickening crack and a further shriek from the green man.

Vinyáya turned her head and spat out another mouthful of blood, though she was sure it didn't do anything to help her appearance. Already her breasts were covered in red tributaries, her nails clogged with skin and a few hairs, and her feet extra-slick from the soap and bodily fluids mixing on the floor, making it difficult to stand and look around at the other showering officers. Everyone was watching her now. Even Root was done dealing with his pixie attacker, though he hadn't had the decency to make the bastard bleed. The little fairy was just being held by another pair of officers, leaving Root to look at Vinyáya, his mouth open.

"Arn...Warrant Officer. Stand down." He didn't have a higher rank than her, but he tried to appeal to her training, opening a hand and facing his flat palm to the ground.

Vinyáya scowled. But, after a few seconds, her hands unclenched and she began to bring her legs together.

"Ssss...ssss...ssssstupid...whore."

Vinyáya's eyes narrowed.

"Stand _down_ ," Root commanded, taking a step forward.

Vinyáya turned her head to the side. Slowly. As if she were a wind-up toy that was on its last bit of spring tension.

The goblin was back up. Or halfway up. He needed some help, and got it by placing is back against the shower wall, sitting on the faucet, feet braced on the floor. His tail was bent and did not move, though an angry goblin should have been lashing it about, using it as yet another weapon in its considerable arsenal. Its eyes were clotting up, but that didn't mean an end to the crimson, as the very eyeballs had begun to change color in his rising rage. Before, he'd fought between lust and outrage when the only female who had made it past the Academy had dared fight back. Now, he was just pissed, though that didn't banish his arousal, leaving him ready to suitably punish the uppity cunt in the only way that women would understand.

"Kill...you..." He hissed, flexing his legs, trying to rise. "Rip...you open...make you _bleed_. Cut your stomach up, tear out your entrails, shit in your—"

Vinyáya closed the distance between them, slamming her hand over the goblin's throat, squeezing it with all of her strength. She wanted _so much_ to crush his windpipe, but, apparently, she needed to do more weight training to accomplish that happy task. Instead, she pressed him down and against the wall, baring her own teeth, picking up one foot. "Don't you know—"

"Stand _down!_ " Root bellowed, coming towards her as fast as he could, trying to shoulder his way past the ring of observers.

"You _never_ ," Vinyáya continued, ignoring the elf and bringing her foot down.

Oh, it _hurt_ when her foot hit the faucet, but the impact was softened a bit by the goblin's genitals. It hurt so _good._

"Curse!" She screamed, bringing her foot up and down again, the brightness of the room increasing as the goblin's screams got louder. "In front!" Once more, and she was certain she felt something burst under her foot. "OF A!" Another, and something else gave way. Two of three. " _LADY!_ " And _fuck yes_ , three for three! She let the goblin's throat go, stepping back so she could get the full, wonderful view of the creature cupping its ruined groin, blood gushing between its fingers, swirling down the drain, the many different lines from the different attackers making a beautiful pattern in the clockwise whirls.

" _Arnica!_ " Root shouted.

Vinyáya snapped her head to look at him.

The elf, who had been just three feet away, jumped back, going into a guarding position.

Vinyáya narrowed her eyes at him. Waiting.

When he didn't move forward or back, she looked up and around at the other fairies. Most in the row over had moved back, but the next rows had all come forward to get a better look. Several looked pale, and she flared her nostrils as she finally noticed the acrid stench of vomit. She scowled at that. The LEP really were taking in just anyone these days, weren't they?

She turned her back on the goblin, walking to the dividing wall.

The sprite on the other side was apparently too scared to move away from her. From the smell that came up as she stopped before him, he was also too scared to control his bladder. Or his bowels.

Vinyáya stared him straight in the eyes.

Suddenly, she giggled, bringing a blood soaked hand to her mouth to soften her mirth. "Sorry," she whispered, looking away demurely. She twisted the shower handle and jolted as the first few seconds of chilly water hit her, stiffening her nipples. Soon, though, it was scalding-hot, and she closed her eyes, tilting her head back to wash the little bit of shampoo off the top of her head, the blood leaving her body. She hummed a song from the LEP's latest recruitment video, lathering up her stomach and breasts to make sure she was completely clean. When she was rinsed and refreshed, she turned off the water and focused on the floor as she walked out of the showers, careful to not step in the blood and get her feet dirty again.

* * *

Vinyáya was somewhat surprised that she wasn't arrested by the other officers. And no one came to her as she toweled off. Or as she put on her office uniform. In fact, no one said a word to her until a half-hour into paperwork, and when that happened, the words came from the foremost officer in a group of three that approached her cubicle, clearing his throat before intoning, "Warrant Officer Vinyáya?"

It was so clearly a question that she was tempted to look around and tell the sprite that he had the wrong girl. She almost wondered if it would work, even though she was the only female in the LEP, besides a few secretaries. Instead, she sighed, tucking a strand of dyed hair behind her eyes as she spun her chair about and stood, saluting the man. She longed for a day when she didn't have to start salutes. Not that it would ever happen, seeing as she was about to be court-martialed and tossed out on her ass.

The formality was returned and the sprite spoke again in that emotionless voice. "Follow me, please." Not waiting for her agreement, he turned and walked down the rows of cubicles.

Vinyáya watched him go for a second, darting a look at the other two officers before she jogged after him. They followed her, cutting off any chance of an easy escape.

Her coworkers watched her go. Some sneered. At least one hissed that she was getting what was coming to her, and Vinyáya was sorely tempted to repeat the locker room spectacle, but managed to stay in control.

They took her downstairs and out of the Plaza, the foremost officer stopping before a limo that was unmistakably armored, opening the door for Vinyáya and lowering his head in deference as she, uncomplaining, slid inside. Her main escort sat next to her, the accompanying pair going up front, one in the driver's seat.

The second Vinyáya had taken her seat, she realized that she was not the first person to enter the limo. By the time the door closed, she recognized the sprite before her. When the car's engine roared into life, her jaw dropped.

"C-Councilwoman!" Vinyáya inclined her head, wondering if she should full-out bow or offer to shake hands or get down and kiss the woman's feet. Protocol was not her strong point.

Nan Burdeh helped by offering her hand, which Vinyáya took immediately. The elf was surprised at how firm the councilwoman's handshake was, but Burdeh did not betray any of her thoughts on the warrant officer's technique. In fact, her face revealed absolutely nothing but a mild interest.

Vinyáya let the woman's hand go and slowly sank back in her seat, mind whirling, trying to get some meaning out of the situation. She had expected to be taken before Internal Affairs and stripped of her badge without a trial. Not ushered into a posh limo to be silently observed by the People's first female councilwoman. Nan had got her position via her tremendous fortune, but she wasn't considered a bad leader. In fact, she was beloved by the LEP, championing every one of their budgetary requests, sometimes even donating her own money when a measure failed to pass. Rumor had it that she had wanted to join the LEP in her younger days, but her family had been unwilling to let the woman take that risk. Vinyáya suddenly understood why her own mother had been so horrified at her daughter's desire to join the force. She crossed her legs protectively but kept looking straight at the politician.

Nan's lips twitched at the momentary nerves of her guest, but she did not say anything for a full five minutes. Only when the Plaza was out of view did she run a hand across her cheek and back through her hair, putting a stray strand back into place behind one ear, patting her tight hair bun at the end. "I saw the video of your...display this morning."

Vinyáya blinked. She had been assured that the locker rooms had no cameras when she'd joined the Academy. Or, more accurately, she had been _taunted_ that there were no cameras by the other officers. "Yes?" she said, neutrally. Whatever was going to happen, she was not going to try to sway this woman in any way. If there were cameras and the Councilwoman was against her, she didn't have a prayer.

"Do you wish to know about the condition of your opponents?"

Vinyáya felt her heart falter. 'Opponents.' Not 'attackers.' She didn't respond.

Nan Burdeh put her hand out, and the sprite sitting beside Vinyáya took a data tablet from a compartment in the divider between their seats, handing it to the councilwoman.

Vinyáya had the very distinct impression everyone in this car knew Burdeh did not actually need to read the report.

"Most of them received immediate healing from the surrounding officers, once you'd left," the woman said, eyes flicking over the glowing screen. "Officer Garret still has two gaps in his wing membrane that will need surgery to close. He may not fly again. They were unable to recover some of Officer Acacia Jesseck's ear, but his hearing appears undamaged. Officer Ferdinand Jesseck has been completely healed and his sight is being tested as we speak, though I think he shall be fine. Officer Yander is currently in a coma, though the doctors are optimistic." Burdeh lowered the tablet so she could look Vinyáya in the eye. Even after the reading, she remained neutral as she finished the update. "Officer Keeshan is sedated, at the moment. He will require surgery to restore any sort of functionality to his sexual organs."

Vinyáya swallowed, despite herself. She could feel tremors threatening to escape her, and she thought even the smallest one would shake her apart. She wondered what the LEP would charge her with. Assault? Battery? Hell, maybe they would even up it to sexual assault on the goblin's behalf. It was terribly ironic.

"All of them, including Officer Oneida, who this..." Burdeh consulted her tablet. "This Julius Root handled. All of them are in police custody, pending charges."

Vinyáya coughed and, when she tried to recover, a bit of saliva went down her windpipe, sending her into near-convulsions. It took her some time to recover. When she did, she noticed that they had left the streets of Haven and were now spiraling up a rather large parking structure. They reached the top floor and went all the way to the back, parking in a dark corner.

Vinyáya closed her eyes, waiting for the press of cold steel to her temple. This seemed like the perfect place to get rid of a body. Who knew how many cars entered and exited this structure a day and how often anyone needed to park all the way at the top. She bet there were no cameras on this little corner. How long would it take to find her body?

Through the young officer's final thoughts, Burdeh said, "Warrant Officer Vinyáya. I have an...offer for you."

* * *

One long tour, several hundred questions, and a good, stiff drink later, and Vinyáya was sitting in a large yet undecorated room. It was likely meant to be an office, but all that was inside was two chairs, Vinyáya, Burdeh, and the data tablet that the elf was reading. Though she was only reading one word, at the moment. The same word she'd been reading for the last five minutes.

"Demons," she said aloud.

Burdeh nodded.

"I..." Vinyáya licked her lips. "You mean to tell me...all this..." She swept her hand about the room, though she meant the absolutely massive facility that was just beyond the office, including all of the state-of-the-art equipment waiting at just about ever nook and cranny. Like it was there for ambiance, instead of actual use. "All this is for...demons."

"Well, not all," Burdeh disagreed. "Section Eight will handle the things that the LEP can't. Because of...minor _issues_ in policy." She scowled.

Vinyáya knit her brows. "Policy," she repeated, well understanding. "And...you want...me."

"Precisely," Burdeh smiled, hands folding primly on her lap. "And I will have you."

"Or?" Vinyáya said, an edge to her voice.

"Or what?" Burdeh returned.

"I think that's _my_ question. Not yours." Immediately, Vinyáya winced. How had she gone from abject worship to snapping at the woman in just a few hours? Her mother had always told her she had a smart mouth, but this had to be the first time Vinyáya saw it as a negative.

"No. It really is a question for you." Burdeh rose and began to stroll slowly about the room, her hands behind her back. There was nothing to look at, so that focus in her eyes must have been on something abstract and far beyond Vinyáya's reach. "I do not believe that money can make people do things to which they are morally opposed." She laughed, wings flapping in time to her mirth. "Though I _do_ have a lot of money, if I ever wanted to give it a try. No. Money can not _change_ a person's basic essence. But that is not what I am trying to do with you, Warrant Officer."

Vinyáya scowled at the title. For some reason, for the first time, she hated it. Against "councilwoman," it was...nothing.

"And today you proved that you aren't above taking...expedient measures to accomplish something."

"Expedient measures?" Vinyáya scoffed. She had been treated to an update on Officer Keeshan's condition midway through the tour. Fairy magic and the extremely competent doctors that served the People could do a lot, but the goblin had better have already claimed a mate and got her to lay a few eggs, or else his line was over. And that note about carrying a bag with him at all times until reconstructive surgery could be done...well, even she had winced, and she'd been the one who caused the damage.

"The People are mostly peaceful, and that is to our benefit, normally," Burdeh soliloquized. "Our crime rate is low, considering population density, and we depend on the surface less and less every day. Which is good, as the humans are in the middle of a technological boom. If our own history is any indication, we have only a few centuries before they begin developing audio-video recording technologies, and their population growth...well, it is phenomenal. Soon, even the most remote reaches of the planet will have a sizable human settlement.

"For the last few centuries, demon sightings have been...negligible. One or two every century, and most of those end their journeys on the surface of the moon. When they do not, then the human's see the bodies as fodder for some sort of...religious revival. But...the appearances have been increasing. Slowly. But measurably. We can no longer ignore the issue." Burdeh turned to Vinyáya, who was watching the councilwoman, rapt. "Section Eight will go to predicted demon sightings and prevent exposure to humans. They will administer amnesiac drugs as necessary. We are in development of a computerized means to wipe memories, as well, to reduce the risk of allergic reactions and mental breakthroughs. Our goal is to make humans forget every future instance of a demon sighting. And, if they stop thinking they are seeing demons...and the People continue to hide well..." Burdeh waited.

Vinyáya flexed her fists. "They will forget that fairies exist."

"Yes," Burdeh agreed. "And we will be safer. We can escape notice for far, far longer."

"It won't last forever," Vinyáya countered.

Burdeh looked surprised. Then delighted. "No. It will not. No matter how every fairy and every Council member—including that fooling young pup, Lope—wish it to be so, we shall eventually be exposed. But _you_...you will be charged with protecting us. You shall be our safeguard against a premature exposure. As things are now, if the humans discovered us, they would wage _such_ a war, and we would not escape. Not with our freedom. And, likely, not with our lives. Someday, though...perhaps."

Vinyáya looked away, not quite believing in that possibility. She had a hard time believing in the ability of a species to overcome its roots. Not after that morning.

Burdeh stepped forward and gently took the tablet from Vinyáya. Her fingers moved swiftly over the screen, changing documents, and she handed it back over to the elf. "This is what we are offering you."

Vinyáya looked at the numbers. And, gods, they were big numbers. "I...thought you said you didn't believe money could buy people."

"I don't." Burdeh shrugged—an altogether unsettlingly casual gesture for a politician. "But I believe it can make an already tempting proposition all the more irresistible, when properly applied. Reduce the delays while someone 'thinks it over.' And I do hate delays."

Vinyáya scowled at the screen. She got the feeling that, as much as she admired the woman, she was going to have a very strong dislike of the rich by the time this encounter ended. Experimentally, she tapped her index finger to one of the numbers. It brought up a tiny sub-menu, with an up and down arrow. She pressed up for a long time. Then chose a few other numbers and increased those, as well. When she was done, she turned the tablet about to face the councilwoman, locking their eyes together, trying to dredge up some of the fury that had filled her in the showers. "This is what you will pay me."

Burdeh looked at the new numbers and chuckled. "Gods. Is that all?" She offered her hand to the officer. "Welcome to Section Eight."

Vinyáya leaned away from the hand. "One more thing."

Burdeh's smile faltered, but her hand did not come back. "Yes?"

Vinyáya took a deep breath, rolling her shoulders back and sitting straighter. "A woman's locker room."

Burdeh's brows rose and her head tilted to the side. "As...large as the men's locker room?"

Vinyáya almost negated it. She was the only one who needed the separate locker room. And then...she considered...a future where that was not true. Not true in the least. She nodded, lifting her hand.

Burdeh slapped their hands together, the shake even firmer than their first, her smile now somehow changed. Less businesslike. More...feminine. Almost...no, _actually flirtatious._ When she finally let go, she spread her arms wide, indicating the room. "Well, then, Commander Vinyáya! How do you want to decorate your office?"

Vinyáya dropped the data tablet, one of the front pieces snapping, the screen scrambling on impact. "Muh...my...?" Vinyáya began to sway in her chair, fighting with the white and black tendrils that had reappeared in her vision.

Burdeh looked down at her new direct subordinate. Shaking her head, she sighed in exasperation. "Really, my dear girl, the first thing I have to teach you is to read documents all the way through..."


	7. In All the Wrong Places

Lili Frond hadn't entered the LEP with the title of "Bimbo." "Airhead," perhaps, but that was something she had come to expect. After all, she was three things the cadets at large seemed to disapprove of: beautiful, rich, and a girl. Possessing one of those attributes could easily be looked over. Two was pushing it. All three? Not a chance. So, "Airhead" didn't seem too bad. "Airhead" she could overcome.

Ironically, her first change of title wasn't to the aforementioned slander on sexual promiscuity. No, she was actually dubbed "Tease" quite soon after her fifth unsuccessful date. Lili was particular about her male companions. Her mother had taught her that, saying that many men would be compelled to pursue her because of her looks or bank account. It wasn't critical harping on all men, but a mere warning, and Lili took it seriously. She certainly gave each date a fair chance, but by the main course, she always knew what he wanted for dessert, and she wasn't on the menu.

Then came...him. He was...attentive. For one thing, he looked at her eyes long enough to actually know what color they were, rather than projecting the majority of his attention to a curved area a bit lower on her body. He opened doors for her, helped her with her chair, guided her with his elbow crooked around hers. He wasn't from a notable family, but he had all of the manners of her aristocrat acquaintances. In fact, he often had more. It was...refreshing.

They went out often in that first week. Courtship within the Academy was fairly easy, if you were willing to call the more casual events, like having dinner at the cafeteria, a "date." They shared almost every meal, and he always walked her to her next class or back to the dorms. Whenever he said goodbye, his smile was nervous, and he took longer and longer to leave her side. He was even late to a class with the new Commander Root, and _that_ probably impressed her more than anything else. To incur the wrath of Beetroot... The next time he escorted her to class, she stopped his harmful hesitation by leaning over and kissing him (their first time), thanking him for going through the trouble. He had laughed and given her a thumbs up, walking away with a swagger.

He took her on a "real" date that Saturday night. Lili wasn't sure where he got the money for the restaurant he took her to, but she knew his family wasn't rich, and he only had a little money saved from the part-time jobs he managed to pick up whenever the Academy was out of session. She felt guiltier with every course. When he insisted that she order a dessert for them to share, she nearly yelled at him to not be stupid. That he had already spent too much. Instead, she chose the cheapest item on the menu, then felt her heart thrill as they fed it to each other, bite by small bite.

The rest of the night, they walked through the parks of Haven, talking and laughing. Gossiping about their teachers, complaining about homework. Sharing the urban legends that ran rampant in the Academy, speculating about what kernels of truth were to be found within.

When they returned to the dorms, he stopped in the divide between the male and female dorms. He wrapped his arms around her waist, devouring her mouth, which still held the sweetness of their shared treat. She loved it, and she was dreading the moment when he would give a final, light kiss and leave her at the entrance to her hall.

Then one of his hands went lower, and she gasped, breaking the kiss. She had stammered his name, pulling away. Said she thought she should go, now.

He had searched her eyes, and then looked away. His voice was hurt as he said he had hoped...

She said she wasn't ready for that sort of thing. It was only a week, and she had...she had never...

"But, Lili," he whispered, and there was a single tear falling down his cheek, "I want you. I...I _love_ you."

It felt like the world stopped. This elf...so kind...so slow...so soft... _love_. She couldn't believe it. Yet she _wanted_ to so badly. She asked him why. He told her a dozen reasons, laughing softly at the more ridiculous ones, blushing at the serious. And he pulled her closer, nuzzling into her neck, and said it again. "I love you, Lili."

She went with him.

It _hurt_. Oh, _gods_ , it hurt so _bad!_ She knew about sex. About virginity. Knew it would hurt, but all of the romance novels and stories from her friends and classmates...they said it was a twinge, and then adjustment, and then passion. This wasn't a twinge. There was no adjustment, and she couldn't even remember what they meant by "passion." She had never been seriously hurt in her life, but this felt like every scrape and paper cut and slipping knife in the kitchen, all at once. Not one moment of pain. Minutes, and she gasped and squirmed and didn't speak. Her fingers dug into the crumpled sheets and she wanted to tear the flimsy linens apart.

Then he was groaning and out and off, and he was gathering up his clothes. Sliding on boxers, jumping into jeans, not bothering with a shirt. He stretched, his back cracking, and sighed. Turned to her.

He looked at the sheets and cursed. "Man, blood _never_ comes out..."

Lili brought her legs close to her body, looking at the red stain. "I...I'm sorry."

He grunted, picking up her dress from the floor, tossing it to her. He told her he had an exam on Monday, and he needed to wake up early to study all through tomorrow. When she didn't move, he clapped his hands, urging her to hurry.

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Put the dress on and found her shoes. Looked at her lap. The dress was of that irritating type of material that would retain every crease, and it looked like shit, now.

He didn't take her arm in his. He walked several paces ahead of her, hands shoved in his pockets. As they passed the lounge, he looked in and smirked.

Lili walked up beside him and began to shake. There were a dozen cadets in there. One of their teachers, too. All male, of course. They groaned, and one took a bag from the table around which they were sitting, throwing it at her date's head. He caught it easily, despite the amorphous nature of the insides, which clinked and rang with that familiar tone of gold on gold. He saluted jauntily and jerked his head at the hall exit.

Lili had looked between them and him.

He shrugged.

She ran. Ran before they saw her cry. But not before one of them laughed and said it _was_ possible to get the Tease to put out. "Just another Academy slut!"

She had started throwing up a few weeks later. All the female cadets had assumed it was some sort of eating disorder. After all, _no one_ had genetics that were _that_ good. Either the Frond woman was having work done at the early age of sixty, or she was taking matters too far. No genetics. Not all of their workouts. Just a stupid blonde puking her guts out to fit into size zero pants.

The third morning she awoke to empty her stomach into the dorm toilet, she began to have an inkling. A chill in her spine that turned into a roiling in her stomach that made the vomiting even worse. She had sent a message to her professors for the day, saying she would be out sick, and scheduled an emergency visit with the family doctor.

When the pregnancy test came back negative, she began to sob, thanking the gods and her kingly ancestor. And once the tears began, she couldn't make them stop. Decades of training to keep her emotions in check around others, being the perfect society girl, and one little negative shattered her. She was _glad_ , that is not to be doubted. The very idea that her night with the cadet may have led to something that could not only end her career before it started, but also bring shame on her illustrious family...she had been terrified.

Her doctor was a good one. He had put aside his tablet the moment she started crying and pulled a chair up so he could sit directly in front of his patient. He took her hands, holding them tightly. He rubbed them and squeezed them, whispering "Shhh...shhh...Miss Frond?" He said this over and over until she wiped tears from her eyes and looked at him.

He told her that the vomiting was probably a result of stress. The chemicals in her body were in complete disarray, and her blood pressure was the worst he had ever seen from someone her age. The doctor talked about the large course-load given to new cadets, and the nearly unending physical trials they were put through as "hazing" to weed out the weaker fairies. And he mentioned the hostility of the largely male force to any aspiring female.

Then he squeezed her hands tighter, and his voice was soft, like a father's. He told her that he wanted to help, and he would do whatever she asked, but he had to know what was going on.

Lili's lower lip had trembled, and she tried to understand his words. She wanted to ask what he meant, but every time she opened her mouth, her voice was strangled and liquid, still too full of her tears to actually ask.

He tried to give her time, but eventually realized that she was stuck. Perhaps, after an hour or so, she would have recovered enough to get a few words out without his prompting, but he couldn't leave her like this for that long. So, trying to keep his voice as casual and comforting as possible, all while feeling his own stomach twisting into knots, he went on. "Miss Frond...were you raped?"

She tore her hands from his, and her breaths came quicker, so loud that they filled her ears, and even she, in her torn state, realized she sounded like she was in the middle of a mile-long run. Or a fire-fight. She shook her head. Said "no!" That wasn't it at all. She had gone to _him!_ He had lied, yes, but...she hadn't been...

She hadn't been...

She hadn't...

She had wanted it...

Right?


End file.
